


23 Days

by VampireGRose



Series: Retribution of a Fallen God [2]
Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Child Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Male Slash, Past Abuse, Post-Death Note, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-09 05:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13474938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireGRose/pseuds/VampireGRose
Summary: In the past, they were adversaries. Then they were resurrected as allies. Now they must become closer if they wish to survive.Following their return to the human world, Light Yagami and "L" still struggle seeing eye to eye. However, when a string of bizarre yet familiar murders occur, the two former rivals are forced into the fray once again with a new, albeit bitter, Kira Task Force. But personal feelings, and a shadow from L's past, will drive the two men to the edge of ruin.And, to top it all off, they only have twenty-three days to save the world...Currently on hiatus.





	1. Revenant

Near has never been fond of chocolate, but, when he does have a moment of weakness, it always falls on the anniversary of Mello's death. Ideally, he'd like to forget about the past and focus his energy and time on future obstacles. But something always crawls back into him on days like today where he finds himself in the midst of many card towers and reading _The Boy with No Name_ by Anonymous, despite knowing the story by heart. It's quite possibly the only time off he values and commits to.

He bites into the candy and lets it melt on his tongue. His taste buds neither melt with it nor repel the tang. They remain indifferent, as does Near. He forces the calorie-filled product down his throat, and it sits in his stomach, bubbling into a messy pile of brown. While it dissolves, Near contemplates that this is not only for Mello's memory but, by extension, L's as well. Justice and vengeance meld together in one last-ditch effort to repel any evil thought that seeps into the young man's mind.

And there are many.

It should not be in the nature of the world's greatest protector to want to kill. But a looming factor lingers in a nearby drawer in his room.

Near lifts himself from a splayed out position on the floor, placing the book down. He weaves through the towers of cards, shuffles to a drawer, opens it, and rifles his hand around for a slip of torn paper.

The piece looks old and brown as if it has been subjected to the elements. To an outsider it would be dispensable. But Near is one of the few people in the entire world who knows this is no simple piece of paper.

The hunger begins to manifest. It draws him in. He's done well to resist its alluring call. But, like chocolate, there are days where his willpower wavers beyond his comfort level.

His mind grows hazy.

Near pushes the piece back into the drawer and slams the drawer shut before he loses control. The hunger lingers for a few painful moments and then slowly evaporates. Near massages his temples before returning to his spot among the cards. He reaches for a stuffed toy he had left next to him on the ground. The toy had been specially crafted to resemble L—even possessing bags under its eyes. He squeezes its body and arms and twists them, practically ripping the fabric. This seems to be the only real way to help quell his hunger.

One of the monitors flicks on and a gothic W appears. "Near, can you hear me?"

"Yes," he replies, clearing his throat. "Go ahead, Watari."

But instead of an answer, the room contorts, and dark shadows loom overhead. Static interrupts their short conversation, and the W disappears. Near props himself up. Did all of the monitors just turn on by themselves? He tries to turn them back off, but the remote doesn't seem to work. No, this is not some unorthodox mistake. This is intended.

Beneath the static comes an inaudible voice.

He sits up, hiking his knees to his chest. His dark eyes narrow at the many gray screens. The static begins to irritate his ears. But the longer he stares into the screens, the more understandable the voice becomes.

Finally, the voice says, "Hello, Nate. It's been too long. Not since Wammy House, I believe?"

Near tenses but says nothing. He can't be entirely sure if he's hallucinating or if this is reality. Though he's leaning toward the latter.

The disembodied voice continues, "How's it been these past few years impersonating your idol?" The static sizzles with distortion.

Near feels a strip of sweat slide down the side of his face. He wipes it away with the heel of his hand as he contemplates whether to respond or wait until the voice has identified itself.

He chooses not to answer.

"I see how it is," the voice says, irritated. "You're wondering whether this is a dream or reality? I assure you that you're not dreaming. After all, your bed's still dry." It laughs.

"Who is it that I'm speaking to?" Based on what the voice has said, he can rule out Light Yagami.

"You really don't remember? Well, I'll give you a few hints before I reveal myself. One, I was also in line to succeed L. Two, I ran away from Wammy House after realizing how much of a shitty place it was. And three, I was single-handedly responsible for the murders of four people in Los Angeles."

Near's eyes widen. "It can't be…"

The television's screen contorts until it warps into two capitalized Bs in gothic text and red ink. Then the words begin to bleed. The blood reaches the bottom of the screens where it seeps out and onto the floor of Near's room. He leans over a tower of cards to see a puddle grow.

A bubble forms at the center of the puddle. It expands until it's at least three feet in diameter. Suddenly, it bursts. Near barely blocks blood from flying into his eyes. He's drenched in the sticky, red liquid, as if half of his room. All of his card towers have fallen, and he bites back the anguish that's begun to build within him. When he lifts his head, someone stands before him.

Black hair, a gaunt, pale body, and piercing, crimson eyes. The young man isn't L, but he sure as hell resembles their predecessor to a disturbing degree. Even Near almost mistakes the face for his predecessor.

"Boo."

A chill runs down Near's spine. "B."

"Actually, it's BB. I would remind you never forget that, but you're not going to live for much longer, and I'm pressed for time."

Near wipes some blood off his face and tries to stack a few cards back together to now avail. "So you've come to kill me?" He almost chuckles at the thought.

BB purses his lips and scratches his chin idly. "That, and I'll need what's in your drawer." He gestures with his head. "I think you know what I'm talking about, Nate." The blood on his body begins to harden. He doesn't seem to be shy knowing another man is staring at his naked body. Though, as long as Near has known him, BB has never been discreet.

"It's in the first drawer, under the board," Near says.

BB saunters over to the drawers and follows Near's directions until he collects what he needs. While he's there, he also takes some clean clothes to wear for later. Near had grown a few inches in the years after Kira's end. Enough that BB can fit into his size. Near always had a habit of buying attire a few sizes too large regardless.

BB stuffs the piece of paper into the jeans he pulled out of Near's drawer. "How's that old fart Watari doing?"

"He's dead. He died the same time as L."

BB's eyes widen. " _Really_?" All of a sudden, a burst of laughter spills out of him. He grabs his chest with one hand and claps his palm over his mouth to hold himself back. The reaction is far overdue. "Good riddance. I hated that geezer," he says, coughing from a lack of oxygen intake. "Glad to know he's a rotten corpse. Wish I had seen him die, though."

"He raised us."

"So?" BB's tone deepens. "You think I give a shit?" He picks up the L doll Near had been playing with and turns it around in his hands. "Besides, isn't it natural for children to want to kill their parents?" He pulls the doll's arms so hard, the fabric tears.

Near sits on the question, letting it sink in and digest inside of him. "It would have to depend on the relationship and the justifications behind said relationship. For example, if a father strikes his son—"

"Don't try to weasel around the truth," BB hisses. "You know as well as I that man deserved what he got. Big Brother didn't."

"L understood the risks," Near counters. "If not for his sacrifice, Mello and I wouldn't have succeeded. I'll always have him to thank."

"Ah, gotcha. L sure had a way of looking out for us, didn't he?" BB tosses the doll and plops down on a stack of fallen cards. "Everything we are will always be traced right back to him."

"Of course, we were trained as his backups."

"Backups," BB echoes and stifles a laugh. "Is that all we are?"

"Nothing else."

"You sure wanna die, huh?"

Near collects the doll and tends to the rip across its shoulder. Without the proper utensils he has no way of rectifying it to its former appeal. "I've done my part. I would prefer to live, but seeing as you're here and have the power to kill me, struggling or begging isn't quite, how should I say, my style."

BB grins, impressed. "You always were the brat of the bunch. That much Mello and I could agree on."

Near feels a smile tug at his face. "You two were quite similar. You both admired L to…questionable degrees."

"Don't be like that," BB says. "You wish you could've been like him, too. He's our big brother. We looked up to him."

"I did admire him, yes. But now he's dead."

BB's eyes watch him for an uncomfortable amount of time. "Is that what you think?" He leans forward. Their faces are so close, Near can feel the man's breath tickle his skin. "Do you think he'd stay dead if I'm here alive and well?" His red eyes glimmer in excitement. "The game is about to begin, Nate. I'll finally be able to show L what I'm capable of."

Near shakes his head and sighs. "Even if what you say is true, you'll never be him. Alone, none of us can compare to L."

BB stands up and cracks his neck. "You know something, Nate. I respect your mind and determination, but I've never liked you. You wanna know why? Because you look at everything so analytically. Your world is black and white. Everyone else's world is gray." He opens his arms out wide as if he's about to embrace his brother. Or perhaps he's trying to embrace the air. "But my world is filled with color. Do you know which color is the most beautiful?"

Near presses his lips together. The answer rests on his tongue, but he can't say it. The word forms a sickness in his stomach. If he dares let it out, bile may rise with it.

"Red," BB answers for him.

"So you wished to create a world painted in blood?" Near asks. "If L has returned, he'll stop you."

"Oh, Nate. I hope he does. I really, _really_ do!" He dances around the room. His naked form leaps and bounds in jovial delight. Near has never seen something so erratic since Light Yagami's confession. "Just the thought of L seeing what I've become and what I intend to do to this dull world gets me…" BB stops short near the wall. He leans against it, hunching over like all the contents in his stomach are about to pour out.

Near sits up on his legs.

Instead, a giggle escapes the man's throat. It sounds almost pathetic, like an actor trying to perfect his evil laugh.

Near can't take the sound seriously until it swells and practically shakes the walls.

With BB's back turned, the younger man considers the phone resting on the desk in front of the monitors. All he needs to do is tap a button and at least three security officers will rush in here within seconds.

He slowly leans toward the phone.

BB's laugh abruptly ends, and his tongue clicks. "Now, is that really necessary?" He swirls around, a wicked smile across his face. His petrifying eyes leer at the young man. Every fiber in Near's being freezes solid. The crazed nudist leaps onto him, straddling him against the floor. One hand coils around the younger man's throat. "Let's not be hasty, Nate. I've been quite respectful of you despite our strained history. Besides, calling in your minions is pointless. I can't die by conventional means. If I could, I wouldn't be here, would I?"

"I suppose not."

BB releases his throat. Near can breathe just a bit better but not to his fullest. BB remains on top of him and doesn't seem to be interested in removing his weight.

"Are you a virgin?"

The question comes out so casually that not even someone like Near is prepared for it.

BB tilts his head. "Well?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with everything, Nate."

The weight on Near's chest begins to clog the blood flow to his extremities, causing them to numb up. "I am."

"And how old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"A twenty-one year old virgin. Not just any virgin—the successor to L, himself—the most powerful man in the world. You could get any amount of pussy for that title alone, Nate. Instead, you sit in here fondling your toys." He takes the L doll again and wiggles it in his hand for emphasis. "Why?"

"I hate the outside," Near admits.

"Hate it?" BB says. "Or, do you actually fear it?"

His heart lurches. Near feels another bead of sweat slip down the side of his face and absorb into his mane of white. His lips part slightly. A world of flame engulfs his vision. Screaming. Crying. Madness. It all hits him at once.

BB smirks and seems to read the answer in his brother's catatonic expression. "I respect your honesty." His hips begin to grind against Near's loins. "Honest men deserve a little compensation." The grinding intensifies until there's tightness in the younger man's jeans. "See? Even geniuses are still human." He slides a hand around Near's neck and the other between the fabric and Near's skin, cupping his fingers around the engorged organ. His smirk thickens. "I think I've found a clue in your pants."

The rhythm builds until the walls tremble. If not for them being soundproof, anyone of Near's neighbors would know what's happening. The impacts become so violent, the monitors rattle.

At the same time, Nears comes inside his pants.

BB removes his wet and sticky hand. He rubs his thumb along each finger and scrunches his nose. The smell isn't to his liking.

"Shame. I had hoped you'd last a bit longer." He rolls off his brother and wipes his hand clean on the other man's shirt. "However, I'm saving myself for someone of higher quality." He winks. "I think you know who I mean."

Near doesn't respond. His mind has become an empty shell. All of the intelligence has been wiped. His eyes remain wide.

BB frowns and then glances to a clock sitting on the desk. "Less than a minute remaining. Guess I'll have to make this last part quick." He ambles over to the puddle still bubbling underneath the monitor screens and fishes out a Death Note. BB turns to the first page. "Nate River, death by erotic asphyxiation at 10:39 PM on January 26th, 2013."

Near lies lifeless, with his eyes forever staring into nothing.

BB adds a smilie face next to his brother's name. "Be happy that you died by my hand. I don't think anyone else would have given you such a generous death." He closes the notebook and returns to Near's cadaver. Running a few fingers down the dead man's face and throat, he feels the warmth beneath Near's skin. His cheeks still have some flush to them. BB's mouth twitches. "Did you know that in some cultures, people eat the flesh of their enemies to gain their power? You won't mind if I partake, will you? Besides, we can't put you to waste. You'll enjoy working for me."

No answer.

"I'm glad we've come to an understanding."

He scavenges the vicinity for a proper kitchen knife but can't find one. Sighing, BB returns to Near and unbuttons his white shirt to reveal his porcelain body. He follows his fingers with his tongue down the sternum until he reaches a soft spot of flesh in the middle of the abdomen. He bites deep, drawing blood and tears a sufficient amount off. The texture is gamey but juicy. With each squelching chew, his strength builds. BB swallows, letting a part of Near absorb into him, giving him the advantage he needs. Memories flow into his brain, narrowly causing it to burst. But BB holds together and accepts the whirlwind of images with open arms and an open mind. These memories will provide him information. They're his power source. Once the flurry of memories quell, BB releases a sigh of satisfaction.

"Now I'll have something to remember you by, my brother." BB wipes the blood from his mouth with the heel of his hand and laps up any remaining with his skillful tongue.

His appetite sated, BB indulges in the finer utilities of suburban life. He takes a hot shower. He washes the blood from his birth away and follows it with his eyes as it swirls down the drain leading to oblivion. Stepping out of the tub, he pats himself dry and dresses in the clothes he had collected from Near's drawers—a red zipped-up sweater, boxer briefs, and jeans.

Before he leaves, a couple of things catch his attention. BB collects the children's book from the floor and the half-eaten bar of chocolate. He takes a bite of the candy and runs through a sheaf of pages with his thumb.

Static.

"L…"

BB looks up at the monitors as one screen morphs to form a gothic W.

"L…we received some static on this line when we tried calling you earlier. What's your status?" the indistinguishable voice asks.

BB notices the wires from the monitors connect to a small speaker on the floor that has been partially hidden by bloody cards. He tosses the book away and lifts the speaker to his lips, sprawling himself out on the floor like a cat.

"This is L. Everything's under control."

 

**23 DAYS REMAINING.**


	2. Anniversary

Three years and nothing's changed. The world's still just as crappy as it used to be before divine intervention. Three years ago, everyone was paranoid about walking out of their houses and suffering fatal heart attacks. Today, the most anyone has to worry about is how to make a living on minimum wage.

 _How much longer will I last_?

Matsuda contemplates this over a cold glass of beer. It's his third, maybe his fourth of the night. He can't remember. He takes another gulp, and his mind swims from the alcohol.

The bar is sparse of people and smells of a musky odor. A few pool tables are left empty, and the bartender spends the majority of his hours typing away on his phone. It's a Saturday night. There should be more entertainment, more energy. He had read an ad that Saturday nights are when college-aged students come out to party and drink. Not that Matsuda would _ever_ consider courting a college girl. That sort of behavior would not only have heads turning the wrong way, it would be immoral. On the other hand, he had hoped to divert his attention from the memories polluting his psyche by engaging in harmless flirting with an attractive young woman. But the only occupants are either men, married, or _less_ than ideal. Not even drunk goggles can cloud his judgment.

At thirty-four years old, he still hasn't successfully found his match and settled down. Granted, the economy isn't on his side, so any interest in raising a family would quickly be overshadowed by bills, bills, and more bills until he's drowning in debt. Compensation as a policeman has barely helped him scrape by for the last three years. Even more disappointing is the lack of serious cases he's taken on since the task force was discontinued. Occasionally, he may assist in a homicide or a murder case but those cases are few and far between. There's no meaning in a detective career anymore.

A bell rings. Matsuda notices someone in his peripheral vision standing at the doorway. He waves down Ide, who swiftly joins him at the bar.

"Sorry, I'm late," Ide says, shrugging off his parka and uncoiling his scarf from around his neck. "I see you've started without me. How cruel."

"I'm not as patient as I used to be," Matsuda argues. Then he tosses back the last of his third or fourth beer.

The bartender puts down his phone and greets the older detective with a perfunctory bow.

"Two Bud Lights," Ide says and nudges Matsuda. "Got to catch up to the single kids out here."

Matsuda frowns. "You're one to talk. Forty-three and no wife to speak of."

"Forty-two," Ide corrects.

The younger detective rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Speaking of, is Aizawa-san joining us?"

The bartender places two Bud Lights on the counter in front of Ide. Then he gestures to Matsuda's empty glass, but the younger detective shakes his head and raises a hand. He decides to take a break.

Ide hands the bartender his credit card. "Keep the tab open," he says before taking a sip from one beer and answering his coworker with, "Nah, can't. He's still got shit to do at the office."

"Again?" Matsuda's lost count of how many times now Aizawa has ducked out of a drinking night for either family business or overtime.

"Well, he _is_ the chief of the NPA _and_ he has a family to take care of. We might have crappy jobs but his jobs are crappier." Ide finishes his first beer fast and starts working on his second. "One of them he doesn't even get paid for."

Matsuda purses his lips and nods. "This is true."

Silence wedges between them.

"You know what today is, right?" Ide finally speaks.

"Saturday?"

The older detective gives him a look.

Matsuda leans forward and rests his arms on the bar counter. "You're two days too early. The anniversary is on Monday."

Every year between the 26th and the 28th of January, Matsuda hopes that work will distract him enough from the images that threaten to rot his brain. It's always around this time that he wakes up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and gasping for air as if he's been underwater for an extended period of time. But sadly, no amount of work or psychotherapy can cure the night terrors.

"Still," Ide argues. "This is the day where everything started going to shit. First Mello, then Tanaka, and finally—"

The younger detective puts a hand up to stop him. "If you're going to bring that up, I'll need another drink first." He signals to the bartender, who brings him another round of beer on command. Matsuda makes the contents disappear within a few gulps. The room starts to move.

Ide shifts in his barstool. "Damn, you're making me look bad." Before Matsuda can really register, the older detective has finished both Bud Lights and is working on a third, guzzling it down like water.

Matsuda stifles a laugh. "You're never going to land a wife if you can't even beat me, old man."

"Is that a challenge, you little punk?"

A crooked smile grows on Matsuda's face. "You damn right it is!" He turns back to the bartender. "Yo, two tequila shots. _Pronto_!"

Four…five…six. Hell, who's counting? Matsuda sure isn't when he tosses back his latest shot of tequila and clanks the empty glass onto the counter. The world spins in unorthodox patterns, and he's filled with warmth. He turns back to Ide, who finishes his tequila in two gulps.

"Ha!"

Ide frowns but then burst out into a belly laugh. Matsuda mirrors him, and he has no clue what's so funny, but the feeling is nonetheless refreshing. He throws an arm around his coworker's shoulders. They've both forgotten what day's today.

"Ya…ya know somethin' Ide-san. Ya can be a real ass…but I love ya, man. I really, really do!"

Ide smiles. "I love ya too, ya punk-ass kid."

They hug it out.

Somehow, someway, they end up outside. Matsuda isn't sure if the bartender kicked them out or they left by their own accord. Regardless, he's not ready to go home, and the feeling is mutual based on Ide's expression.

"Yoooo, how's about a trip to dah strip?" Ide laughs at his own rhyme. "Come on, Matsuda. Leeez get some dances."

Matsuda shrugs. "A'right."

Ide, for all his sternness and, in some ways, stiffness, surely knows where to suggest the best entertainment when he's slightly incapacitated. It's like a sixth sense that opens up whenever enough alcohol fills his system. Matsuda is surprised that of anyone at the office, Ide happens to be the only other one interested in utilizing the night's festivities. Not even Yamamoto, who joined their team shortly after the Kira case had been solved, partakes in such recklessness as often as Matsuda or Ide do. In the beginning, Ide was a firm and competent worker. But nowadays, he's become lazier. Perhaps it's partially due to Matsuda's influence. He spends half his workday nodding off and the other half teasing his older cohort about his lack of sexual prowess and pleasurable excursions.

Although Ide's hasn't always been the most pleasant to work with, Matsuda admires his commitment to the job and to their superior, Aizawa. Even before Aizawa climbed the ladder to become chief and Soichirou Yagami's successor, Ide showcased his loyalty well. For that, Matsuda will always appreciate him.

The two policemen stumble into the red light district. The street is lit brightly, as if the holiday season hasn't ended. Again, Matsuda isn't entirely sure how they ended up finding it in their drunken stupor, but they're here and ready for the next intoxicated step.

They pass a love hotel where Matusda catches sight of a man and his much younger escort. She squeezes his arm and presses her buxom chest into his coat, giggling. If her skirt hikes up any more, her ass will pop out. Her stilettos clank against the pavement as they head inside the hotel.

It's been several months since he's had any action. While the life of a thirty-four year old bachelor can have its benefits, the lack of physical intimacy lingers in Matsuda's bones. He tries to blame it mostly on long hours at the office and general fatigue.

"Oi. How's about dis place?" Ide slurs and points to a flashing sign with the name "Gratifying Girls Galore." He makes a suggestive gesture with his eyebrows. "Dees girls are hot as fuck."

Ide may know where to find the red light district but if his tastes are anything to go by he chooses poor quality.

Matsuda wrinkles his nose at the sign and shakes his head. "Nah, dat's boring. We've gotta go deeper." He laughs and hiccups at the double entendre. "I'll show you dah best place in all of Kanto region."

They continue down the bustling street, shouldering through crowds of equally drunk and somewhat belligerent night dwellers. The policemen jostle their way through. If Matsuda and Ide were on duty, they'd have every reason to arrest a handful of these hooligans. But they're not, so Matsuda does his best to quicken his pace whenever he thinks one of them may turn their attention onto him. One precise punch, and he'd be knocked out cold and walking into the office Monday morning with a swollen eye filled with guilt and embarrassment. He'd rather not have any evidence of his outing. He'd hate to see the disgusted look on the chief's face.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Matsuda nudges Ide and nods to a building with the sign _Paradise_ glowing in green capital letters above the club's entrance.

"Hmm, I dunno know if I've ever been here," Ide says.

"Then prepare to be blown away, ya ol' fart."

Ide punches him lightly in the arm.

Two doormen loom at the entrance, checking IDs. When Matsuda hands his off to one of them, the doorman narrows his eyes.

"What the fuck is this?"

"What's what?"

He shows Matsuda his police ID. "You a cop or just trying to be funny?"

"Oh, no, no!" Matsuda fishes around in his back pocket for his wallet and takes out his driver's license. "I'm off duty. I swear."

Ide hooks an arm around his coworker and chuckles. "Yeah, no business tonight. Just all fun in dah sun…I mean, moon."

The doormen exchange looks.

"Fine," the first one says, handing Matsuda's police ID back to him. "But anything funny and we're throwing you out."

The two policemen nod vehemently, pay the entrance fee, and then head inside the double wooden doors.

Entering any kind of club is like losing track of reality. The outside world erases. The smell, the sound, even the taste is different. Matsuda follows a dimly lit pathway up a staircase and into a throng. Smoke mixes within the scene, and, at first, Matsuda thinks he's going blind. Several booths circle each of the twelve small stages. Each dancer seems to be swimming and floating above a large mass of yen. Most booths are overflowing with customers. He shoulders through the crowd to reach any empty booth somewhere in the back. The sign on it reads, "Will return in fifteen minutes."

"Yo, what are we doing back here?" Ide falls into his seat.

"Just wait. Everything else is full."

Ide rolls his sunken eyes. He looks on the precipice of vomiting and sleep. Matsuda isn't sure which.

About five minutes pass when someone comes over and plucks the sign off the small stage. "Sorry for the wait, gentlemen," the woman says with a suggestive wink. "Your wait was worth it. We have a hot new gem for you."

Matsuda sits up. He tries nudging Ide awake, but the older man is very clearly about to pass out.

A half-naked shape drifts out from the crowd. The smoke makes her seem like some angelic creature come out from the abyss. The little amount of attire she does have on consists of a black and purple bra with matching panties, and black stiletto heels. Thick, dark eyeliner and eyeshadow makes her brown eyes pop. She flashes a soft smile, and Matsuda's heart stutters, and blood rushes to his loins. Her hips sway each step she takes. Her hair bounces along with the momentum of her gate. She ascends the stage and wraps polished fingers around the metal pole.

Matsuda leans back. Ide starts snoring beside him, but he pays him no attention to his inebriated coworker. His eyes can't leave her. If they do, he fears she might attract someone else or fade away in the smoke.

She hoists herself off of the stage and spins around the pole like one of the horses on a carousel. Her movements are clean and slow. He's never seen this girl before, but she's learned well and fast in the time since his last sojourn. And he's so glad that she had. The majority of dancers in this club base their routines on sexual gratification. However, this one seems to use her beauty not only for that but also as an art. She's the artist and her body and the stage are her paints and canvas. Perhaps she works as a ballerina in the day. Fluid motions like the ones this dancer pulls off can't be mastered overnight. There's a certain amount of skill and patience that goes into such a dance. She's a welcome change from the regular everyday venue.

When her routine finishes and he's sated her with several thousand yen, he asks her for her name.

"S—Yuri. It's Yuri."

Even a common man knows it's an alias. But Matsuda also catches the small slip-up in between her soft voice and the pounding club music.

"Why haven't I seen you before?"

"Perhaps you weren't looking well enough," she retorts, sitting down on the other side of him from Ide and crossing her legs. One of her ankles rubs against his, teasing him.

Matsuda laughs sheepishly. Alcohol lingers in his system. "So how long have you been working here?"

"About three months." She nods to Ide. "Is he going to need help being escorted out?"

Matsuda waves it off and smiles. "Oh, no, no. He's just taking a nap. Don't worry about him. This happens all the time." Honestly, he's never seen his coworker this far gone before, and a part of him does worry. But he's not yet ready to leave such a beautiful and witty woman unattended. "So where are you from?"

She scoots closer to him until one of her breasts is pressing against his chest. The blood in his loins thickens. Her arm drapes over his shoulders. "I'd like to know more about you. What do you do for a living?"

He licks his lips. If his judgment hadn't been clouded with alcohol, Matsuda might have been smarter with how he responds to her question. "I'm…in law enforcement."

Her eyebrows rise. "So you're a cop?"

"Technically yes, but I'm _off_ -duty."

"An off-duty cop in the heart of the red light district," she says through her serene tone. "What will people say?"

"I won't tell if you won't," he says with a wink.

Yuri giggles and shifts. "Did you happen to work on the Kira case?"

"Yes, actually." He shouldn't have said that. But Matsuda's too entranced by her beauty and the smell of coconut to care about confidentiality. "I was one of the few to catch him."

" _Really_?" She leans in close. Her breath tickles his skin. "Who was he?"

It finally clicks. The images of that day in the warehouse pour back into him like a torrent of rain. Matsuda leans forward and drops his head into his hands. The warmth throughout his lower body dissipates.

Yuri puts a hand on his back. "Hey. Are you feeling all right? Do you need to throw up?"

"N-no," he says, composing himself. "Sorry about that, but I think I should go. Thank you for the d—for your company." He stands and wills Ide out of his unconsciousness. When the older policeman finally wakes, Matsuda throws his arm over his shoulders and wraps another arm under Ide's armpit to hoist him up from the sofa. He turns back to Yuri. "Thanks again. Sorry it couldn't be longer."

Yuri forms a forgiving smile. "It's okay. I hope to see you again."

Outside the club, Matsuda half-carries and half-drags Ide into a taxi. Too afraid to leave his coworker in his precarious state alone, he decides to instruct the taxi driver to head straight for his apartment. Matsuda had hoped he wouldn't have to babysit anyone tonight, but not everything can go his way. And usually it doesn't, so he shouldn't be surprised.

"That'll be 5200 yen," the driver says after parking in front of Matsuda's apartment complex.

He reaches into his back pocket and fishes for his wallet. It's not there. He swiftly fishes into his other back pocket and finds nothing. Matsuda searches frantically for his wallet in his coat pockets. After many failed attempts, he realizes he's lost it.

"Shit," he mutters. It must have somehow fallen out at the club. He should go back, but they're already here at his apartment, and fatigue has caught up to him. Plus, he can't leave Ide alone in such a state.

He has no choice but to use Ide's credit card to pay the driver. Although guilt fills Matsuda, he is letting Ide stay the night at his place, so this should make them equal. He just hopes Ide doesn't wake up pissed on top of his potential hangover. This is turning into the worst night in a long time.

Matsuda carries Ide on his back and up a flight of stairs since the older man has fallen back asleep. He unlocks his door and gingerly plops Ide down on his couch, pulling off his shoes in the process and draping a blanket over him. A sigh escapes Matsuda as he fills a glass of water and picks up a trashcan and places both in front of the snoring man.

He heads into the nearest room, which is practically the same room but with half a wall between them. Matsuda lives in a studio, so the only doors are the front door and the bathroom door. From his bedroom area, he can see his kitchen and Ide's feet.

He peels off his attire and supplants his work pants with boxers. Finally, he falls into his bed, neglecting to brush his teeth but not caring enough to stand back up unless Ide calls him.

With another sigh, he reaches for his phone and searches the Internet for the club's number. The phone rings several times until it goes to voicemail. He ends the call and retries a few more times without success. A curse spits from his clenched teeth before Matsuda finally gives up and leaves a voicemail.

He has no choice but to go tomorrow and pray that nobody has taken his wallet.

A sickness rises in his throat, and Matsuda leans over the edge of the bed, unsure of whether he should race to the bathroom. But it's not alcohol sickness that's risen into his throat.

It's the fear of uncertainty.

The clock reads 2:02 AM.

One day down. Two more to go.

 _God damnit_.

 

**22 DAYS REMAINING.**


	3. Tainted

It’s that time of the year again. Right after the Christmas décor has been stripped away from the walls and the symphony of jingle bells has silenced. Right after hopeful people visit the shrines to pray for the New Year’s good fortune to sprinkle upon them. The holidays have finally gone into hibernation. And every year, for the past three years, she knows that all the prayers and the good fortune wishes are complete and utter bullshit. People are blind to the reality of their situations—wishing on stars or inanimate objects won’t save anyone from future misfortune. She would know. She’s thought like them. She’s been blinded. Only after her mother died did she finally take the blindfold off.

Another day in paradise means another day of hell. 

Today is no different.

Tokyo streets during the night feel just as crowded and claustrophobic as they are during the daytime. The only real difference is the chiller air and the abundance of lurkers. She pulls her coat closer to her body, buttoning any loose buttons and hiking the zipper up to her chin. Her boots clank against the sidewalk. Occasional eyes linger on her. Most of them are from unwanted admirers. So much for subtlety. Anyone is able to hear her from a mile away. 

“Excuse me,” a middle-aged man approaches her at the nearest bus stop. “May I ask what your name is?”

“Fuck off.”

His eyes widen behind his glasses. “Excuse me?”

She leers at him and wedges a hand inside her purse. “You heard me, creep. Fuck off before I call the cops.”

His mouth drops. “Well, I…fine.” He clicks his tongue and stalks away into the night.

A sigh of relief eases some of the tension inside of her. She releases her grip on the bear mace in her purse. Thank goodness it took just a simple curse to ward him off. She hadn’t been so lucky the last couple of incidences. 

The bus ride to work is shorter than she’d hoped. It’s always shorter than she hopes. Time has never been a friend.

If only she had more time with her father.

With her brother…

With her mother…

Where was time when she needed it most?

Nowhere. That’s what.

Time can fall into the deepest ocean trench and drown.

The bus stops a few blocks down from where she works. She could stay on it and wait the ride out, but she doesn’t want anyone to know her occupation. To the outside world, it’s a shameful existence she leads. But it’s one that must be traced in order to survive this shitty life.

She walks at a brisk pace. This part of the city is one of the most daunting. If she had trouble earlier, she’ll certainly find more around here. With her head dipped down, she keeps moving. The sounds of faint whistling and howls surround her, but she pays them no mind and continues forward with earnest. 

All of a sudden, she notices someone come out of the dark in her peripheral vision. The man grabs her arm and yanks her back.

“Hey, sweet cheeks.” His blood-shot eyes bulge. “Damn, you’re a _vixen_.” He whistles for emphasis. “How’s about you come over to Hisashi’s place for a while?” He strokes her skin with his thumb. “I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

“Let go.” She tries prying him off. When he won’t budge, she snatches the bear mace from her purse and lifts it to his eyes. “ _Now_!” she hisses.

He promptly releases her, but the grin on his face holds.

She backs up into what she first thinks is a wall. Two sets of arms grab her, and one coaxes the mace out of her grip. 

“Come on, baby,” the first man says, grinning. “Don’t be shy.” He reaches his hand out and hooks a finger between the first button and loop, undoing it. He works on the second one and the one after that before he doubles back in pain, clenching his groin and cursing.

Nobody had been attending to her legs so she did the next best thing. But she instantly regrets it as a fearsome slap slides across her cheek, knocking the wind out of her.

“Should have listened nicely, bitch.” He begins working on the rest of her buttons but grows frustrated and pulls any remaining ones apart, several buttons go flying into the air. 

This is exactly why the world isn’t worth saving. People like this. She shuts her eyes, waiting for when it’ll be over.

“Now, that’s not very gentlemanly.”

“Oi, who the hell are you?”

Her eyes reopen. 

The would-be rapist and his goons are staring at a figure standing in the street, hands in their pockets, face obscured by a hoodie.  

“Oh, just your average bystander.”

“In that case, fuck off.”

“Nah, I’m already involved.” The figure advances toward them, and his head rises. Red eyes glow beneath the hood. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Earlier you called yourself Hisashi. Why?”

“That’s my name, dumbass. Now piss off.” He nods to one of his goons who releases her and stalks toward the hooded man.

He remains unnaturally calm. His red eyes shimmer. “Really? Then who’s Genzo Kishimura?”

The rapist’s goon suddenly hunches forward, clutching his chest and gasping. Spittle drips from his mouth and snot from his nose. He drops to his knees and then topples over onto the ground, unmoving.

“What the fuck?” says the goons’ leader, stepping back.

She feels the remaining set of hands on her loosen from shock and seizes the opportunity to swirl around and knee the other goon in the stomach and slip from his grasp. He stumbles a bit but catches himself before he can fall while she gains some space between them. 

She should run. Realistically, she would. But a part of her that contains the last amount of honor she has feels the need to thank this person. And another part of her wants to figure out his identity.

“You son of a b—” the rapist is cut off when his other goon suddenly grabs him by the coat, wincing, and then slides to the ground dead. His bloodshot eyes bulge. His mouth hangs open. “W-what’s going on?”

“See what happens when you lie, Genzo?” the hooded man says. “Karma comes back to bite you in the ass.”

Genzo shrinks back, a sweaty mess of fear and anxiety. “P-please! I’ll pay you anything! _Anything_! Just name it!”

A complete contrast to how he was not even five minutes ago. She almost feels sorry for him.

The hooded man nudges her with his elbow. The contact startles her. “What do you think? Decapitation? Car accident? Maybe a mixture of both?” Part of his face comes into view from the streetlight. A crooked smile runs up half his cheek. His eyes, hellish as ever, watch her.

Her heart skips. “Huh?”

“W-w-what are you mumbling about?” Genzo stutters. “I-I told you I’d g-give you anything! J-just name your price!”

“Nah, your fate’s already screwed. Ten seconds left.”

Genzo shoots his head from side to side. Then he scrambles away into the opposite direction and down a long alleyway, wailing. 

“Seven…six… five…”

She watches Genzo reach the far end of the alleyway.

The hooded man raises one hand up and forms a gun with his fingers. “Three…two…one… _BANG_!” 

A loud crash, and Genzo’s form disappears behind a rushing truck. The eighteen-wheeler screeches to a halt, the abruptness makes the breaks flare and sparks fly. Somehow she knows that Genzo is dead.

“Car accident, it is,” the hooded man says, shoving his hand back into his pocket and skipping onto the sidewalk. He nudges one of the dead goons with his foot. “Say, where do you suppose people go to when they die?”

It takes her a moment to come out of the vice-like grip of shock and reply, “I-I don’t know. Heaven, I guess.”

“Really?” He swirls on the heel of his foot to face her. “Even these guys get to go to heaven?”

“Maybe not everyone,” she corrects.

The hooded man bends down and removes something from his pocket. He opens the switchblade and cuts along the goon’s cheek in three ways, creating a triangle-shaped incision that he peels off.

She tenses. “What are you _doing_?”

“Preserving the kill.”

She blinks.

He stands and rolls the bloody piece of flesh up before tilting his head back. Face still obscured, she can’t see his full features. The piece slides into his mouth, and she hears him gulp.

Her stomach churns. He’s a damn _cannibal_? All the food inside her threatens to pour out. She cups one hand over her mouth to prevent such and holds her ripped coat together with the other.

The hooded man slowly turns his head and then his body toward her. The red eyes beam with hunger. “Before I kill you, I’d like to know your name.”

Name? Why does her name have any importance if he’s going to end her anyway? She shouldn’t have expected he’d let her go after witnessing him kill three people. 

He steps closer. “Well?”

“S-Sayu,” she says, her voice trembling. “That’s my name.”

He stands only inches away from her. She can feel his hot breath on her skin. She waits for her inevitable end. She hadn’t imagined dying this night, but if there’s no escaping it, then she decides that there’s no point in running away either. 

Sirens blare in the distance.

“Well, that’s my cue.” He starts away at a casual pace.

“Wait,” she calls. “You’re not going to kill me?”

He looks at her one more time with those hellish eyes. A smile crawls back onto his face, but it’s different than last time. It’s childish and kind. “This’ll be our little secret.” He presses his pointer finger to his lips and shushes. 

Her spine chills as his image melts into the shadows.

 

 

His voice and half-obscured face linger in her mind as she leaves behind the scene of the dead goons. The last thing Sayu needs is to be arrested for a crime she hadn’t committed. But the images of their faces lurk in her mind. Just like how she had found her mother hanging from the rafter in her parents’ bedroom. She shakes away both images to the best of her ability and quickens her pace.

She arrives to work fifteen minutes late. The club is already blaring with music and heat. Her ears ring upon entering the backdoor. Miss Asami’s glare, crossed arms, and tapping finger await her. 

“What took you so long?” Her purple lips purse in irritation. She taps harder on her skeletal arm. Her breath and fur vest reek of cigarette smoke.

“Sorry, ma’am,” she says. 

“Just get dressed and get on stage.”

 _Don’t’ you mean undressed_? Sayu snaps back in thought. “Yes, ma’am.” She rushes by her boss and into the changing room. 

“There you are!” a masculine yet high-pitched voice says. 

Before she has a chance to sit, someone grabs her by the shoulders and drags her into a changing room. Sayu nearly elbows Nami in the stomach. Her grip is almost as tight as the two goons’ were. 

“Quickly, quickly, dearie! You’re supposed to be on stage already.” Nami starts undressing her until Sayu stands before her naked. Although, Nami was born male, Sayu doesn’t cover herself out of shame or embarrassment. They’ve been through this countless of times, and Nami’s never identified herself as male for as long as Sayu’s known her. In truth, she’s the only person Sayu feels comfortable sharing candid information with.

Nami hands her a matching bra and underwear and then slaps her on the ass. “Oh, this is going to look _fabulous_ on you!” 

Sayu wiggles her way into the fabrics while her stylist turns her attention onto Sayu’s hair, unfastening the bun and letting her dark tendrils fall loose over the middle part of her back. Once dressed, Nami forces her into a chair, swiftly flying a makeup brush over her face. Sayu had never seen such artistic drive in anyone until she met Nami. The rate at which she works is astounding. And the quality of her resulting canvas is even more so.

Nami finishes gluing Sayu’s false lashes on and then claps her hands. Her red acrylic nails tap together. “Perfect.” 

She helps her into a pair of stilettos and gently pushes Sayu into an adjacent room where smoke encompasses the air, turning the place into a fog. The shapes of customers and coworkers move through the fog like shadows, and pieces of neon lights break through, spinning in random directions. The music blares, pounding in sync with her heart. The heat causes a bead of sweat to slip down her back and dampen her bra.  

“Go get’em, pumpkin!” Nami cheers from the door and blows an encouraging kiss her way, fluttering her gargantuan false lashes like a pair of bird wings ready to take flight. 

Sayu responds with a perfunctory smile. Once the door closes behind her, she takes a deep breath and exhales most of the nerves that have piled up inside her. Then she descends into the foggy abyss toward her stage. The stilettos are strapped tightly to her ankles. They feel like cuffs restraining her to this prison of sex, drugs, alcohol and madness. 

She navigates the room at a slow but sensual pace. Any quick movement might accidentally make a fool of her. Too many slip-ups in the past on these six-inch heels have taught her to be wary of future mistakes. But, as she glides across the hardwood floor, it feels like something’s pulling her on strings. Like she’s a puppet ready to perform for its puppeteer. Her body works on its own while her mind fills with thoughts of her savior and the dead Genzo and his goons. It feels like a dream.

Those hellish eyes still watch her with a mixture of curiosity and murderous intent. Why didn’t he kill her when he ended Genzo’s party so swiftly and mysteriously? It’s as if he were Death himself, having risen from the underworld to pluck his newest victims from this world and drag their souls beneath the earth. But how did he kill them? Was he working alone? Did he have someone snipe them from afar? But nobody shot the goons. They fell and died of something internal. Poisoned, perhaps? And what of Genzo? How did the hooded man know he’d be killed by a car accident? Was he really working alone? It sounds insane, but the only rational solution she can conclude with is that the entire situation was based on coincidence—from the hooded man’s interference to Genzo’s death. 

Lost in her own mind, she doesn’t realize until she feels money drift across her bare skin that she’s on stage performing. Her completely nude figure is out for display like a toy in a store. But the one watching her isn’t the typical sleazy family man come to sneak out at night while his wife and kids are asleep. Her audience has no ring on his left finger, nor could he be older than thirty (at least, based on his youthful appearance). In a strange way, his expression reminds her of her brother. There’s innocence. As if he’s been forced here. As if he doesn’t want to be here but got lost on his way home. As if he’s trying to escape from something or someone. And, for some stranger reason, she feels like she’s seen his face before beneath the errant stubble and dark, baggy eyes.

She finishes the last few steps in her routine before collecting her clothes from the stage floor along with what money she can find before sitting down. Part of her job isn’t only to dance but also to socialize. If Miss Asami finds out she didn’t at least have small talk with the man, she’ll be in even more trouble.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“S—Yuri. It’s Yuri.” _Damn, almost let it slip_. 

“Why haven’t I seen you before?”

“Perhaps you weren’t looking well enough,” she fires back, trying not to sound too offensive. Customers like some sass, but they won’t pay well for rudeness. There’s a fine line between the two. Sayu sits down next to him and notices his sleeping friend on his other side. She can’t tell if he’s dead or alive, but focuses on the innocent man, flirting with his body by crossing her legs and purposely rubbing her foot against his leg. 

His shoulders tense in response. “So how long have you been working here?” he asks after a nervous laugh.

“About three months.” She nods to the other man, concerned for his health. “Is he going to need help being escorted out?”

The sober man waves his hands in front of him. A weak smile sits across his face.  “Oh, no, no. He’s just taking a nap. Don’t worry about him. This happens all the time.” 

She doesn’t believe him. Based on his friend’s unconscious state and business attire, the men don’t get out enough. 

“So where are you from?”

The question throws her off for a moment. But this time she makes sure not to slip up. Instead, she opts to turn the tables. If she’s learned anything from her line of work, it’s that many customers want attention that they don’t have at home. Sometimes it’s sexual attention (which she evades to the best of her degree), and other times it’s nothing more than conversation. Most of the time though, it’s a mixed bag. 

Sayu thins the gap between their bodies until her breast presses into his chest. His face still has a lingering hint of familiarity. But she has yet to piece together where they’ve met before. Was he a past customer? A teacher at her university? She can’t solve the issue. But asking him for his name may cause an unwanted stir. Defeated, she coils an arm around his neck and rests her hand on his opposite shoulder. “I’d like to know more about you. What do you do for a living?”

He licks his lips. She can tell he’s nervous. “I’m…in law enforcement.” 

And that’s when it hits her. This man worked with her father. And now he’s seen her naked. Holy shit, what a horrible reunion this has turned out to be. However, his name still can’t find its way into her mind, and she can’t afford to dawdle either. He may recognize her beneath Nami’s thick makeup. The longer she waits, the worse things become. “So you’re a cop?” 

His eyes briefly trail down to glance her breasts, but he swiftly looks away. “Technically yes, but I’m _off_ -duty.” 

Not that an off-duty cop isn’t dangerous. Sayu needs to be aware of what she says lest he identify her. But she needs to maintain her Yuri façade. “An off-duty cop in the heart of the red light district,” she says, smiling. “What will people say?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he says, winking.

The words are almost as chilling as the hooded man’s. This night is turning into a startling mixture of coincidences. 

She giggles and shifts her weight to preserve her mask. Should she change subjects? No, it’s too soon. Nobody would switch from a topic like this without looking suspicious. She shouldn’t ask him what she wants to ask him. On the other hand, it may be the only method to help her find some closure. Both her father and brother’s deaths remain unresolved. There’s a piece of her that yearns to know who’s responsible. Besides, it’s not the same as staring down Death as she had earlier. 

She takes a leap of faith. “Did you happen to work on the Kira case?”

“Yes, actually.” He says surprisingly without much hesitation. “I was one of the few to catch him.”

Sayu hadn’t expected to hear the second bit. “ _Really_?” This man knows who killed her father and brother. She needs a name. Just the name will satisfy her. Then this hole in her heart may start to repair. “Who was he?” All professionalism in her has flown out of the window.

His face scrunches up. She shrinks back, realizing that she may have given herself away. Is he going to call someone over? Is he going to say her real name? Shit. She shouldn’t have been so careless.

He drops his head into his lap and leans over the sofa. The alcohol must have caught up to him. 

Sayu isn’t sure what else to do except place a hand on his back. “Hey. Are you feeling all right? Do you need to throw up?” She rubs up and down the curve of his spine, waiting for his response.

He raises his head, and his face has drained of color. “N-no. Sorry about that, but I think I should go. Thank you for the d—for your company.” He slides away from her, stands, and slaps his hand against his friend’s cheek until his eyes flutter open. When the other man can’t gather himself off the sofa, his friend throws his arm around his shoulders and hoists him up. Then he turns back to Sayu with an apologetic smile. “Thanks again. Sorry it couldn’t be longer.”

Sayu smiles back weakly. “It’s okay. I hope to see you again.”

No, he can’t leave like this. Not went she’s so close to the answer she’s been chasing for three years. Sayu tries to figure out a way to keep him just a bit longer so she has time to pry out the information she needs from his mouth. However, she’s too slow to compose a plan, and he’s already heading out the back exit.

When the door closes, she realizes she should ask for his number. Another rule breaking move, but what Miss Asami doesn’t know won’t hurt anyone. She hurries outside and holds the door open. If it closes, it locks. The January chill hits her nearly naked form like sharp needles, numbing her exposed skin. Her eyes dart everywhere for the two men, but they’ve melted into the streets like the hooded man had.  

“Fuck,” she mutters between gritted teeth.

Someone whistles.

Sayu snarls at a bunch of drunken admirers waving to her from down the street. She promptly slams the door behind her and returns to the foggy atmosphere that is the club.

She sits down in the same booth even though she should be on stage performing and adding to her bank. But there’s no point in dancing if she’s not in a certain mindset. 

Her thigh brushes against something.  

Sayu notices something wedged in between the cushions. Plucking it out, she discovers it's a wallet. She opens it, and the first thing she sees is the man’s face on his ID.

Her mouth drops at the name.

Touta Matsuda.

 

**22 DAYS REMAINING.**


	4. Hero

During the night, when the moon is at its apex and the streets are dimmest, beasts crawl out of their human forms. They claw and scratch and laugh and howl as they pick apart their prey like a murder of crows. Alcohol taints their breath, and darkness swells in their hearts. They prowl through the alley, unfettered.

Evil doesn't originate from the light. Evil comes from the shadows. It is unapologetic and surreptitious.

Their victim is a young boy, abandoned by a family who never wanted him in the first place. With the influence of alcohol and poor judgement, the monsters crowd around the youth, spitting insults at him as they kick and push him into the wall. And oddly, their victim doesn't fight back, doesn't even scream, doesn't bother doing anything that might drawn more attention.

"The kid's probably dead."

"The little shit's homeless. Look at the bones on him." One beast lifts the boy's tattered sweater up to reveal his ribs.

Even if the boy knew how to scream, his pleas would fall on deaf ears. The world has no sympathy for the feeble. There's no good to be found here. The only world he could possibly find salvation is the one beyond the living. And even that won't eliminate years of torment.

Once the beasts have made their rounds, they compose themselves—fixing their neckties and buckling their belts—to form the façades they carry with them during daylight hours. They replace their primal forms with the faces of affluent family men as they have done so many times before. A couple of them reapply their wedding rings to their fingers. The stench of alcohol wavers on their breath. They prepare to take their leave when a figure manifests in their path.

"Who the hell are you?"

The boy looks up from the cold ground and past his assailants. Shaken and demoralized, he has no strength to stand.

"You won't live long enough to remember," the hooded figure replies with an amused tone.

The pack of beasts exchanges looks. Guffaws burst from all of them until they sound like a symphony of hyenas.

"Get the fuck out of our way," one of the beasts steps forward and grabs the figure by the collar, pushing him against the wall. His hood slips off upon impact to reveal a forest of dark hair and pasty white skin.

The beast lifts his fist and it seems like the end for the mysterious man. But the man snatches his fist just as it's about to make contact with his face. The beast wiggles his arm, hoping to break free to no avail. Something snaps. The beast roars in agony, dropping to his knees.

"W-what the fuck did you do?" In the dim light, his right hand hangs limp. A bone in his wrist protrudes out. "Who do you think you _are_?"

"I told you, you won't live long enough to remember." He raises his head and faces the others. "Who's next?"

Another beast nudges his accomplice. "Let's just go the other way."

The rest of the pack step back together and turn, only to meet the same man at the other end of the alley.

"Did he just teleport?"

"Maybe they're two of them," one beast says, looking behind them.

"You're not leaving," the man says, raising his head to reveal a pair of red eyes beneath the curtain of black hair.

"Fuck you, you psycho!"

A chortle escapes his throat. "Oh, am I? And what are you men supposed to be? Married? Rich? Pristine?" The stranger nods to the boy lying on the ground. "What will your wives think when they hear you've preyed on a child?"

Silence wedges in between the pack.

"So who's next?"

"Kill him," someone blurts out.

A grin crawls up the stranger's face. "Thought so."

The boy lifts his head from the gravel. The winter chill has caught up to him. His body shakes uncontrollably. His fingers and toes have gone numb. But what he witnesses makes the blood in his veins pump warmth. A great shadow hovers above the stranger's head. The pack of beasts halts. The boy notices the shadow is a pair of black wings that reach out like arms to snatch the beasts.

The pack shrinks back screaming profanities and hastily turning around. They're capsized by a fierce gust of wind. A few of them hit the ground so hard, their heads split open and blood pours out.

"What the actual _FUUU—_?"

"He's a fuckin' monster!"

"Monster?" The stranger shakes his head and takes a few idle steps forward. "Actually, I'm the exterminator, and you're all roaches." He gestures with his head to the beast with a broken wrist.

The beast rises from his agony with little effort, as if someone were pulling him to his feet like a puppet on strings. He saunters over to the nearest pack member and removes something from his back pocket. The boy can't attain a sufficient angle before the real screaming starts.

The beast's arm lifts and falls at a quick pace. Each time it falls, the screaming rises in pitch for a second. When the screaming dies, the beast stands and ambles over to the next stunned pack member and follows the same protocol at the first one. Eventually, all five other pack members have received the same level of care and attention. The sixth beast stands last and lifts his hand to his throat. Something glimmers in the faint moonlight. A blade slides across his skin, creating an incision from ear to ear. Dark blood pours out, staining his collar. He slumps to the ground. The weapon clanks and slides across the gravel, coming to a stop near the boy. It's reachable.

Footsteps approach. A hand lowers and plucks the bloody knife from the ground. "Thought they'd put up more of a fight." A sigh escapes the stranger. "Oh well, this won't get his attention."

He's thinking aloud. Does he know the boy's still alive? Does he care? Does he plan to give him the same treatment?

The boy tenses when the stranger kneels to his level. He feels those demonic eyes inspect him like a piece of meat. If he's to die, he hopes it's quick and with little pain. Though compared to the beating he had endured, anything else seems miniscule.

The stranger hisses something inaudible under his breath. The boy flinches when fingers touch the back of his head. "Too bad. If I had been here sooner, then you might have been saved. But I'm no angel either." He rises and turns.

The boy senses he's about to leave him here a shriveling pile of broken spirit and tainted flesh. But a sliver of courage digs inside of him. He lifts his hand and catches the cuff of the stranger's jeans between his fingers.

"Let go."

He doesn't.

"If you think I came here for you, you're wrong. Just because you're a kid doesn't mean I won't hurt you."

His grip tightens as he tries to form the word. His head rises so his face meets those piercing eyes. He feels like he's talking to the Devil. But the word he tries to articulate is the complete opposite. He mouths, "Hero."

The eyes shimmer, as if taken aback. The stranger lowers to the boy's level once again. "You're stupid to think that of me." The stranger lifts his chin. "And you're even stupider to have that hopeful look in your eyes." He purses his lips. "Maybe I can use you."

His wings flex as his hands slide underneath the boy's naked body and pick him up. The taut arms, though savage in nature and capable of strangling the boy with ease, cradle him like an infant. The stranger's wings flap once, and then they're higher than the surrounding buildings. The world beneath them flies by as they soar through the black night. Where the stranger is taking him, he doesn't know. But the boy presses his face against his savior's chest and shuts his eyes. The once chilling breeze feels refreshing. The soreness across his body wavers. This has to be the first time in a long time that he feels safe.

"Don't get comfortable, kid."

His eyes open. They land at the top of the Tokyo Tower. It feels as if he's on top of the highest mountain peak overlooking the world. City lights sparkle like stars, and the distant sounds of car horns blaring catch in the wind.

"What's your name?"

The boy opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

"I take it from your lack of speech, you don't have one," the stranger says. "Family?"

The boy shakes his head. At least he's capable of communicating that much information.

His savior's grin resurfaces. "Shame. I had hoped someone would come looking for you. The chase makes everything taste sweeter."

The boy cocks his head to the side.

"I'm not your father," the stranger says with a bite in his tone. "I'm not your guardian or friend or hero. I'm not here to babysit you or raise you. But I can give you a purpose. You have a choice." He steps to the edge. "Accept that you're nothing more than a tool for me to use, or reject my offer, and I drop you."

The boy's heart stutters. The lovely view of the city at night dissolves beneath a sickening twist in his stomach. Earlier, he had yearned for a quick death. But now that the option rests in front of him, he hesitates. Fear pricks at his thoughts.

"Well?"

He meets the fearsome gaze and presses his cheek back into the stranger's chest. His fingers clench his savior's hoodie so tight that his knuckles turn white. A meek whimper arises in his throat.

"You've made a poor decision."

The stranger steps away from the edge, his wings folding to form a protective barrier between the boy and the elements. The black feathers brush against the boy's skin, encasing him in a warm embrace.

"Since you can't speak, I want you to repeat what I say to yourself in your mind. Blink twice after you do. Understand?"

The boy nods.

"You're nothing."

 _I am nothing._ He blinks.

"You have no home."

 _I have no home._ He blinks.

"You're mine."

 _I am yours._ He blinks.

"If you betray me, you die."

 _If I betray you, I die._ He blinks.

"You are a boy without a name."

 _I am a boy without name_. He blinks. Though he's never had a name that's stuck. He's been called many things in the past. However, a name—a form of identification, a personal keepsake that makes him whole—has yet to fall into his lap. Then again, all that has fallen into his lap up until now has been despair and disownment.

The stranger hums something. The tune is upbeat, somewhat ironic given the stranger's behavior earlier. It sounds like a nursery rhyme:

" _There once was a boy without a name,_

_Who knew no family, only pain._

_And the boy wandered far and wide,_

_For he never stayed long, like the tide…"_

The boy listens to the rest of the rhyme. It closes on a shocking note. The boy finds himself crying for the character.

The stranger scoffs. "Crying won't do you any good. If you want to survive as my underling, you're going to have to put your emotions into a box and throw the box overboard."

The boy promptly wipes his face with the heel of his hand and imagines a cardboard box where he places a sheaf of papers with emotions scribbled onto them inside. He picks the box up and tosses it into a black sea. The cardboard box floats at first, until the boy imagines finding a rock to weigh it down and drops it onto the box. He watches his emotions drift into nothingness.

An inexplicable weight lifts from his shoulders. Warmth encompasses the boy's body. The stranger's wings are doing well to protect him.

"Ever heard that story?" The stranger asks in a low voice.

It takes the boy a moment to snap out of his reverie. He shakes his head vehemently.

The black wings curl around the boy tighter as a gust of wind hits them. "Good. It's a terrible story." But then he shakes his head as if disappointed with something. "I read it many times, and I've always hated it."

The story, though tragic, is reminiscent of the boy's life. Wandering day by day with no home to speak of and tainted by misfortune. Who would want him?

"Perhaps I should explain what I'm doing here. There's someone I'm waiting for," the stranger says as his eyes survey the city. "He's someone I've known for many years. I grew up with him, but I grew up as his shadow. Do you know what that means?"

The boy stares.

"I was just a Plan B." A sardonic laugh forms from his throat. "Plan B. Right. How fitting of you L..." His voice grows inaudible. It seems like he's talking to himself again as his eyes continue to watch the world.

The moonlight outlines the stranger's face. His eyes glow like a pair of rubies, and a sudden desire swells inside the boy's heart.

He reaches up to touch the stranger's face. Those red eyes flash back to him. He hesitates until a sliver of courage burrows into his body. Their eyes never stray from one another. If the boy takes his gaze away, he may lose this chance. His fingers spread and stroke along the stranger's cheekbone. His skin's warm against the January chill. Beneath the boy's fingers, the stranger tenses but doesn't recoil or snap at him. The red glow in his eyes wavers, and the boy catches the evidence of a bitter soul trapped in his mortal shell.

 _Beautiful_ , he thinks.

"Are you quite finished?"

The boy lowers his hand.

"Now that we've gotten through the awkward proceedings, why don't we find some clothes for you and some strawberry jam for me."

Despite what he had said earlier in the evening, his words sound oddly comforting. Something appears between his skin and hoodie's zipper. The boy's eyes squint, mistaking it for a shadow at first but soon recognizing it as a notebook.

The clock strikes midnight, and the bell tolls.

The stranger looks back out at the city. "This truly is a beautiful night, K."

 

**22 DAYS REMAINING**


	5. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. So, some of you newcomers may have noticed that I added this to a series. Originally, I wanted to make this story a spin-off rather than a sequel, but certain details from my previous work were against me. If you enjoy 23 Days, I'd highly recommend checking out my previous work, Retribution of a Fallen God, for clarification on some things.
> 
> Thank you and happy reading! -V

SATURDAY, JANUARY 26TH

 There is nothing quieter than the sound of death. And when L Lawliet and Light Yagami had experienced it, they experienced it in shades.

L's death was like a thick poison that had seeped into his lungs and strangled him from the inside. But, despite this, he went far swifter than his adversary.

On the other hand, Light's death was remorseless and determined, like a hunter. It stalked him for many days and nights, but eventually it had found him and cornered him. And no matter how much he kicked and screamed to escape its hold, his end was absolute.

Death does not waste its time on mercy. It comes and it goes like the tide. There's no stopping it, no reversing it, no erasing it.

Until now.

The first thing Light sees upon his rebirth is the blue sky. He sits up from the gravel and examines his surroundings. People walk by him, unbothered by the man lying in the middle of the road on a busy Tokyo intersection.

 _I'm back,_ he thinks. Light stands up and pats himself down. The bullet woulds from when he had been shot are nowhere to be found underneath his black longcoat. Yet, as he comes to terms with his revived body, he can't help but contemplate whether he's a ghost or if the rest of world is just far too preoccupied to acknowledge him.

He tries patting a man on his shoulder for directions, but the man simply looks through him, not over him, _through_ him and waves to someone within the crowd. The other man walks through Light like an open door and the two of them melt into the throng.

"They can't see or hear us," a voice near him says.

Light turns his head sharply to see a familiar face. "Ryuzaki," he says, his tone giving off some mixture of relief and shock at the sight of the pale man.

"You seem upset. Is something wrong?"

Light examines his companion, who had once been his greatest enemy. But now, as his mind grows lucid, he begins to reconnect why they both are standing here together, ignored by the rest of the world.

"Kami. The Shinigami King." Light massages his temples. He hears a voice in his head. It's foreign at first but then gains familiarity the more it echoes his names. "Ryuk. The Death Note."

The pale man approaches him and leans forward. "Have you already forgotten why we're here?"

The memories come at him like a tidal wave. Light remembers a dark place where he had been reborn and given a task. He remembers the great abomination that had given him said task along with a burden—that burden was Ryuzaki as his familiar. Together they have returned to the human world. Light recalls Ryuk's haunting cackle and the Death Note dangling between the Shinigami's long, filthy fingers. Light's full name sat inside it's pages, begging the young man to save it.

Light continues massaging his temples as he answers, "We were given orders by the Shinigami King to retrieve the Death Note with my name in it. Only then would we both be free. But Ryuk took it to the human world. And now we're here." He finally drops his hand. "Is that correct?"

Ryuzaki presses his thumb to his bottom lip. "Yes."

"Okay," Light says through a sigh. "So I haven't lost my mind."

"Yet."

Light ignores the remark and surveys the streets for some hint of recognition. When he was a high school and university student, he frequented these busy streets to and from school, usually with a book in hand to pass the mundane travel time.

"As I said before, nobody else acknowledges us," Ryuzaki says.

"It must be similar to how Shinigami are," Light adds. "You can't see or hear a Shinigami's voice without contact with the a Death Note first." Which means the only plausible way for either Light or Ryuzaki to make contact with the mortal world is to find Ryuk. "Come on, we need to discuss some things." He starts forward and finds a small alleyway less than a block away. Even though the men have the freedom to discuss their plans within a sea of people, the commotion is too distracting. Light pulls Ryuzaki into it by the collar harder than intended.

"Easy there, Light-kun," Ryuzaki says with bite in his tone. "There's no need to be forceful. I'm quite fond of manners."

"Sorry," Light says, releasing his hold, "but this is important. We need to find Ryuk."

"Obviously."

Light presses his lips together and crosses his arms over his chest. "My hunch tells me that he's somewhere in Tokyo."

"And why do you suspect that?"

"Because Ryuk likes a good chase."

Ryuzaki cocks a brow. "Is that really your best assumption?"

"It sounds ridiculous, but I've spent time with Ryuk. Enough time to say that he isn't the type to run. He'd prefer to watch idly from the sidelines and have someone else deal with me." Light paces and accidentally kicks an empty beer bottle. Odd. Though they are both equally invisible to humans, inanimate objects seem to react to them."He's a lot lazier than you'd think."

Ryuzaki remains unflinching. "How can you say that without any leads?"

"We have a lead," Light counters. "Did you know that Shinigami like apples, Ryuzaki?"

His dark eyes narrow. "What?"

"Ryuk loves apples."

"So you're suggesting we search every apple in the entire city of Tokyo for him?" Ryuzaki purses his lips. "I doubt we'll successfully complete such a task given our limited resources."

 _True_. "Then what do you suggest we do?"

The pale men's glazed eyes lower to the ground, as if searching for the answer to Light's question among the empty beer cans and plastic garbage bags. When his gaze rises, he asks, "Do you still have family, Light-kun? Or someone you can trust. Someone you were close with?"

"My mother and sister," Light answers. "But I'm not sure if they are still living in the same house we had."

Ryuzaki begins heading toward the crowded streets of Tokyo. "Then we'd best go and see for ourselves."

"Wait," Light says, halting the other man in his tracks. "What about Ryuk?"

"We set a trap."

"Trap?"

Ryuzaki nods and the slightest smile appears on his pasty face. "If Ryuk loves apples so much, we need to get into contact with someone who has access to apples." He puts his hand up and presses it against the brick wall. His fingertips sink through the structure. "As you can see, we are invisible to things of this world. However, like you, I believe Ryuk won't travel too far. Besides…" In the thin shadow of the building, his eyes start to glow. "I have the ability to sense where your Death Note is. And I have a feeling it's still with Ryuk."

Light blinks. Perhaps this won't be as troubling as he had initially anticipated. "But if humans can't see us, how will my family know we're there?"

Ryuzaki nods to the beer can Light had kicked earlier. "Certain objects seem to respond to us. We may be intangible to the naked eye and to structures, but smaller, lighter objects react to our touch."

Light considers. "I'd rather not get my family involved. This has nothing to do with them." He recalls his father's demise. How he had looked into his son's eyes and believed him not to be the infamous Kira until his last breath. "I don't think my mother or sister will be able to handle my return."

"Would you rather Ryuk fly around with your name imprisoned inside his Death Note?" the pale man asks with a quizzical brow.

"Very well," Light concedes, though still cautious. "Let's go."

The two men weave through countless swarms of people for a time until they give up trying to avoid inevitable contact. Neither man needs to avoid conflict with either humans or cars because it matters not. Even when one of them walks into the street as traffic comes flying toward him, the vehicle passes through him, and the unharmed ghost continues on.

"Instead of my family, we could pick an apple from the store and plant a trap with it," Light suggests as they pass a marketplace.

"Do you really believe a floating apple will go unnoticed with this many eyes in one place?" his companion replies, giving his a sidelong glance.

Light nods. "This is true." He had already considered that issue. But, for some reason, only when he hears Ryuzaki confirm his suspicion does he toss the thought away. In his past life, he'd have only himself to deliberate with and trust. But that was before he had experienced death. Before he had made too many mistakes. Nowadays, he has an extra pair of eyes and ears to bounce ideas off of.

"Ryuzaki," he says, watching the way the pale man's black hair bob off the nape of his neck. "Do you have family?"

Ryuzaki's head turns slightly, but he continues walking ahead of his companion without missing a step. "Not that I remember."

"You grew up in an orphanage. Surely you must have been close to someone there. Or were you all separated from each other?"

"Was I?" Ryuzaki replies, as if he honestly doesn't know. "Who do you think I was close to?"

"Did you know someone named Near?" Light considers the young man's true name. "Nate River," he corrects.

Ryuzaki mumbles the name softly to himself. "It sounds vaguely familiar. Do you know what he was to me?"

"He was your successor. Well, one of them. You were quite fond of variety back when we knew each other," Light almost chuckles. If it hadn't been for Mello and Near's combined talents, he wouldn't be having this conversation with this manifestation of his former rival. "Even I didn't expect there to be another L after you were gone."

Ryuzaki stops at an intersection, as if he's waiting for the traffic to flow by and the pedestrian sign to shine on. As if he's actually human. "Light-kun," he says. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure."

"Were we ever friends?"

The question comes as soon as the pedestrian sign flashes on and people trickle onto the streets. Light and Ryuzaki remain frozen in time as the rest of the world moves along without them.

"I…"

Light remembers siting in front of a monitor screen, typing away code. When he finally breaks away from his duties, he turns to his left and sees an empty chair beside him. On the table in front of the chair rests a lonely piece of strawberry cake. Inside his chest, a black mass grows thick and heavy.

"We…weren't."

The pedestrian sign shuts off, and the pale man dips his head. "I see. That's what I thought you'd say."

And then he starts forward again.

 

 

The men reach Light's house street sometime in the afternoon when the sun has begun to set and the sky has started to darken. Light walks forward, and Ryuzaki falls into step beside his companion.

 _Nothing's changed_ , Light thinks, examining the rows of townhouses closely knitted together, almost as if they are one being. He holds his breath, even though he doesn't need to, as he rounds a corner and sees his house in sight. The gate comes up in front of the men, and Light instantly turns his attention onto the family name carved into the residency's entryway in kanji. He releases the breath he had been holding until now.

"Sakamoto," Ryuzaki answers for him. "You sure you have the correct house, Light-kun?"

"Positive," he says, recognizing everything about the townhouse as his own minus a few cutouts of animal pictures plastered on the windows of his bedroom and a clothesline hanging across a lower balcony. "My family's moved." Oddly, he's relieved. He hadn't planned on getting his mother or sister involved, nor had he wished to. Their interference would've cost him a lot more than what he's already lost trying to regain his Death Note.

"You seem relieved," Ryuzaki says, having noticed.

"Honestly, I am. If we had gotten either one of them involved they may have caused more harm than good."

The pale man's eyebrow rises, and he releases a soft hum. "So you don't care about them enough to trust them?"

Light's gaze returns to the townhouse that once belonged to his family. He had grown up in this very place. The memories he once held dear as a child have since fizzled with age and experience. The first time he moved out of his house was when he had started working with L. His life had shifted so greatly after contact with the Death Note. Light had left his quiet, suburban family behind for a life where he constantly danced on eggshells. His time spent doubling as both Kira and L's right-hand had been so consuming, he rarely ever stepped back into his family's townhouse outside of business or birthdays. There are no personal feelings remaining with this place. Returning now feels like returning to a gravesite.

"Do you want to go inside?" Ryuzaki suggests.

Light chuckles mockingly. "Why would I want that?"

"This is your home, isn't it?"

Light examines the foreign décor around the townhouse. "No, it's just a house." Turning back to his companion, he says, "We shouldn't dawdle. Let's figure out another way to find Ryuk."

The pale man's eyes watch him, as if he wants to say something else. He finally replies, "You're right. Our mission's more important."

With that, both men walk on.

 

**23 DAYS REMAINING**


	6. Warning

Matsuda rises Sunday morning to a hangover and a flurry of voicemails left on his phone. He starts from the earliest:

1/27 - 7:01 AM: _Matsuda, it's Aizawa. Call me._

1/27 – 7:45 AM: _Something's up. I'm heading to the station now._

1/27 – 8:13 AM: _Are you even awake? Where's Ide?_

Matsuda scrolls through a dozen more voicemails—the times in between each growing shorter—before he actually decides to check the current time on his phone: 9:57 AM.

"Shit." He rolls out of bed, instantly massaging his temples as his head pounds like a heartbeat. He fills a glass of water for himself and scrambles through his closet for fresh clothes. During this, Ide remains fast asleep on his couch.

Between dressing himself, Matsuda wills his cohort awake. Ide's in an even worse state. The moment his head lifts from the cushion, his hand slaps over his face, and he releases a painful groan.

"Chief needs us at the station," Matsuda says, wiggling into his pants. "It sounds urgent." He kicks Ide when the older man plops back down onto the couch. "Aizawa needs us. _Now_."

If there's one weakness Matsuda knows in Ide, it's that he can never refuse an order from Aizawa. They've known each other longer than Matsuda has known either of them, and their cooperation goes far beyond the limits of a usual partnership—they're true friends.

The two men reach the station half-past ten. They hurry in on Yamamoto, Mogi, and the chief in the middle of a heated discussion.

"Two separate killings in the same night?" Mogi says. "Must be a new record for someone."

"This isn't funny Mogi," the chief snaps. "Kira could be back."

Matsuda pauses in stunned silence. His body feels heavy, and his lips part. Did he hear correctly? _Kira_ is back? No, Matsuda's hearing must be marred from the side effects of last night's poor choices. There's no way that—

"Kira," Aizawa repeats. "I'm fairly certain it's him."

"What about the stabbing incident a few blocks away?" Yamamoto inquires. "You don't suppose they're connected?"

The chief leans his elbows against his table. A sheaf of paperwork sits in front of him. Matsuda catches a few pictures of Light Yagami and Teru Mikami in the pile. "It could be Kira. Nothing else can explain how those three men in the red light district died. According to the information we've received, there were no visible injures sustained on two of them. The third died from a convenient car accident via truck even though the street he was kill on is widely known to be too narrow for larger vehicles." He entwines his fingers together. His brow furrows. "I know it sounds farfetched, Yamamoto, since you joined us after the Kira case had been resolved, but the rest of us are very aware of his abilities."

The megane pushes his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "Still, we can't jump to such a conclusion without proper evidence first."

The chief sighs and nods to Matsuda. "So, you got my voicemails?" he asks with slight irritation.

"I-is it true that Kira's returned?" Matsuda says through trembling lips. A bead of cold sweat drips down the back of his neck. Even three years later, Kira's presence has somehow resurrected from the grave. And it just so happens to occur on the anniversary between Mello and Light Yagami's deaths. How ironically fitting.

"I'm not a hundred percent sure," Aizawa says, "but it's the only plausible lead we have thus far."

"Maybe it's a knockoff," Ide suggests, still tending to his hangover by massaging his temples and leaning against the wall.

Ide could be right. Although Light's dead, he may have left many followers aside from just Mikami behind to succeed him. Just like L had with Mello and Near, Light could have been plotting anything behind the Task Force's backs during the duration between L's death and his own. If not for L's successors, he would still be playing the Task Force like a fiddle—using them as his puppets until their strings broke and he disposed of them. And yet, some inexplicable voice inside of Matsuda tells him on an everyday basis to forgive the past. Forgive Light. But, most of all, forgive himself. Matsuda has never been one to hate people. But he hated Light for a few fleeting moments. He squeezed the trigger again and again, pouring all of his rage and disappointment into each bullet. Had the others not stopped him, he would've plugged the last fiery bullet into Light's brain.

"Maybe," the chief echoes. His eyes narrow at the photo of Light Yagami in front of him. "Mikami died in jail ten days after Light. But given Light's nature, he had several loyal followers including Kiyomi Takada and Misa Amane." He scratches nervously at the stubble underneath his chin.

"But Kiyomi Takada died two days before Light, and Misa Amane died on Valentine's Day of that same year," Yamamoto explains. "How many followers could Kira have?"

"They're just the ones we knew of," the chief counters. "Kira is iconic among the masses. Some cults still believe in his resurrection or reincarnation. You all remember _Kira's Kingdom_ , don't you? Hitoshi Demegawa played the role of a Kira supporter to gain wealth and fame. But for those who actually believed him, there could be someone out there trying to emulate Kira in hopes he might return."

Silence wedges within the room.

"Does this mean someone is using a Death Note?" Matsuda says. The words come out through a cracked, hoarse voice. He clears his throat and shifts his weight on his feet. "You don't suppose Light left one behind?"

"Doubtful," Aizawa replies before Matsuda even finishes. "Do you think we'd still be alive if Light had another Death Note stashed somewhere?"

"True," Matsuda says with a sheepish grin.

If Light somehow had an extra Death Note hidden away, he could've manipulated anyone to store it and use it in his stead. Mikami was only one of several known underlings of Light's. And Mikami's death came at a rather odd time—ten days later. No visible injuries. The police reports said it was caused by cardiac arrest as a result of high levels of stress. But Matsuda didn't believe such nonsense. Not after seeing what the Death Note was capable of. He had once theorized that Near had used the Death Note to oust Light by controlling Mikami's actions, but that was just a theory. Near claimed to have burned all evidence following Light's conviction. Then again, could L's successor still possess a piece of the supernatural notebook?

"However, that doesn't rule out a new Death Note."

All eyes fall back to the chief.

"I still don't fully grasp this whole Death Note business," Yamamoto says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I understand, Yamamoto," Aizawa says, "but you have to trust us. Why would the police, of anyone, lie?"

The megane presses his lips together.

"Has L made any contact?" Mogi asks.

Matsuda feels the heavy weight on him grow. Whenever L's name is mentioned, Matsuda always mistakes it for the L he met nearly a decade ago. He remembers walking into a hotel room expecting to see someone of tall stature and menacing build only to find a gaunt man with a hollow face, sunken eyes and a mane of wild black hair. But "L" is no longer necessarily a form of identification. It's now a form of protection. A single-lettered shield to preserve someone's true self. Only those who've met him in person know L's true self—Nate River. Near.

"That's why I've brought you all here," Aizawa stands and pulls out a television from the closet. Then he rifles around in his pocket and removes something. "I found this in my mailbox this morning." The words, written in English, on the video tape recorder read, "To L's Friends."

A chill crawls down Matsuda's spine as the chief plugs the recorder into the television and presses Play.

The television produces loud static, and Aizawa swiftly turns the volume down to a tolerable level. A ringing follows, and a gothic L appears on the screen.

"Hello, friends," comes the disjointed voice. It sounds unusually cheery. "This is L speaking. The _new_ L."

An umbrella of confusion encompasses the former Task Force members in the room. An uneasy feeling crawls into Matsuda's stomach and churns inside it. He inhales a strained breath and licks his lips.

"I hope you're having a fun day trying to decipher the gifts I laid out for you last night."

"Gifts?" Ide groans, pinching his nose and keeping his eyes shut. He seems on the verge of heaving.

"The murders," Aizawa answers.

Based on their faces, Matsuda can tell that everyone already knows this isn't Near. But how did this faker manage to discover Aizawa's identity and mailbox? How did he or she know the Task Force's connection to L? He runs through a list of potential traitors in both the station and in the SPK, but the trail in his head runs cold.

"You're probably wondering who I am. Well, I'm not Nate River. Oh, I mean, Near. He's dead. I killed him." A mirth chuckle follows.

Shock slams across the mens' faces like a freight train.

_What the hell is going on_? Matsuda's chest tightens like someone is constricting his body. It doesn't feel real. Near is dead? This has to be a hoax. Someone's playing a sick prank.

"Don't believe me?" the voice asks, as if reading Matsuda's mind. "Maybe this will help. I warn you. He tasted kind of…tangy."

The screen flips to a photo that makes Ide reach for the nearest garbage can and hurl what little contents he has in his stomach. Matsuda is tempted to join him as he stares at the dissected and mutilated remains of what must be Near.

The body has been laid out, spread-eagle and gutted from the hollow of his neck to the groin. His genitals have been removed, and his entrails have been splayed across the ground like party streamers. Bloodstains and something else have darkened his white hair. His deep-set eyes stare out into nothing. A message written in red ink, that could only be blood, sits across Near's forehead.

"Happy birthday?" Matsuda reads out loud.

This no longer feels like a hoax.

After what seems like an eternity, the screen returns to the gothic L. "Now that we've gotten the awkwardness out of the way, I want to tell you all a little story, so buckle up and grab some tissues because it's filled with plenty of feels." The voice clears its throat in a theatrical manner. "Once upon a time, in a far away land known as Winchester, England, there lived three boys, A, B, and L. They were cared for under the watchful eye of their stepfather, W. The boys, though not related by blood, loved each other like brothers—A and B were the same age, while L was called Big Brother L because he was bigger and older. They played together at their house day-by-day, hour-by-hour, until the sun went down. They were inseparable. Nothing in the universe, they thought, could tear them apart.

"Then one day, W took away L during playtime. When A and B asked why he had to leave, W replied, 'His training begins now. Yours will begin later.' And so, he took Big Brother L's hand and brought him inside the house. A and B didn't see him until nighttime, when L crawled back into bed.

"'Big Brother, where have you been?' asked A.

"'Busy,' was all he said.

"'But Big Brother L, we tell each other everything,' B said.

"'Go to sleep,' he said.

"And as the days went on and the times spent with L grew few and far between, A and B became concerned about their older sibling's devolving health and aloof attitude. He no longer ate with them. He no longer slept with them. And, bit-by-bit, he no longer spoke to them.

"'What's happened to Big Brother?' asked A.

"'I don't know, but I'm going to find out,' said B.

"And so one early day, when Big Brother L had been taken out of his bed and led away by W, B followed them. They entered a room, and B cracked the door open to see what was going on. He found L sitting awkwardly in a chair with headphones on and a television in front of him. The screen flashed many horrific images that scared B until he had given away his position. The door flew open.

"'What are you doing here, boy?' W snapped.

'''I-I wanted to see Big Bro—'

"'Go away, B,' L said as he pulled down the headphones and glared. 'Don't ever come back here.'

"And B, broken and betrayed, never did. Not until he was forced to. But that is another story."

Static.

Matsuda blinks. He had fallen so deep into the story that he needs a moment to remember where he is. Police station. The chief's office.

"So whatcha think?" the voice asks, its tone suddenly spry as if it has been rejuvenated from depravity. "Did that make you cry? Am I a good storyteller? Oh, I hope so." It laughs. "But now for why I'm contacting you: I'm here to reunite with Big Brother L!"

The policemen exchange looks. Does this person realize the real L has long since died?

"So until Big Brother L comes out to play, I'm going to keep killing until my birthday. Do you know when my birthday is? I'll give you a hint: It's not this month!" The voice laughs again. "Oh, and if you get in the way of our reunion, I'm going to start killing the people you love." The last part comes out so nonchalantly that it takes an entire breath for Matsuda and the rest to comprehend its level of severity. "But if Big brother L doesn't show his face by the day of my birthday…well, let's just say somebody will be picking a lot more than just apples."

_Apples_? Matsuda's head pounds, and he winces, wondering if it's the stubborn hangover.

The screen contorts and falls black. The men believe that is it until the voice chortles. "Oh, but I won't leave you out in the dark completely. The chase makes everything more fun, right? So here's a clue: K-U-M-O." Each letter flashes across the television screen in English.

"Kumo?" Yamamoto says, glancing to the others for guidance.

The chief hushes him.

"If you don't figure out the answer by the number of days that there are letters, then I'm going to kill the number of people equal to the number of letters in the word. So you'd better get to work Detective Conan!"

The tape finally ends.

Matsuda wipes the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his sleeve. It seems like forever until someone finally speaks.

"Four days," Mogi say, turning to the chief. "We have four days to solve the riddle and no leads as to who we're dealing with other than the clue."

"We know a few things," the chief says, sitting on his desk and pressing his lips together. "He gave away two key elements aside from L." Aizawa looks to Matsuda. "W and Winchester, England."

Matsuda's eyes bulge. "Wammy House."

Aizawa reaches for the phone on his desk and starts tapping in numbers. "Ide and Mogi. I want you to get into contact with the SPK. Send the videotape as proof. See if Near's death is true." He nods to Yamamoto. "You and Matsuda start deciphering what this Kumo clue means. Go. Now!"

The four other members spring into action, almost falling over each other as they escort themselves out of the chief's office.

Matsuda and Yamamoto separate from Mogi and Ide in the hallway. The youngest members head into Matsuda's office, which sits adjacent from the chief's. The megane rolls a chair up to Matsuda's computer and types the four-letter word into the search bar.

"Kumo has a double meaning in Japanese," Yamamoto says, fixing his askew glasses. "Cloud or spiders."

"But _which_?" Matsuda paces.

Is the perpetrator considering the overcast weather or does he suffer from arachnophobia? Does he plan to kill the weather channel? Reek havoc on the city by releasing deadly arachnids?

What would Light or L think in this situation? If only Matsuda had been born with the mind of either of them—Light or L, it mattered not. They were on equal footing. The world's two greatest minds had been in constant conflict throughout their relationship. Matsuda laments how wonderful it would have been had Light never chosen the path of darkness. If only he had joined with L for real, they could've created what may be the equivalent of a perfect world—a world were good and evil balance each other out but one never overwhelms the other. If not for the Death Note's pollution, they would both still be here, easily divulging the meaning of this word, Kumo.

Matsuda runs a hand down his face and sighs. _Kumo. Kumo. Kumo. Clouds. Spiders. Spiders. Clouds._ His eyes open. "You don't suppose that it could mean clouds _and_ spiders?"

Yamamoto's eyes look over the brim of his glasses. "Huh?"

"Maybe clouds in the shape of spiders," Matsuda says. "Or spiders in the clouds. I don't know. It sounds silly."

But ever since the Kira Investigation's foray of supernatural influences, Matsuda has to consider every kind of perplexing and unorthodox suggestion. The spirit of Kira still dwells in many. His memory never truly died. The power of belief may somehow grant someone a fantastical advantage. Thus anything like raining spiders or clouds of spider colonies must be considered.

"You can't be serious," Yamamoto says.

And then there are some, like his younger cohort, who still cling to the realm of reality—with the belief that no supernatural cause could ever find its way into the human world.

All of a sudden, something buzzes against Matsuda's hip.

He gropes around in his pocket and pulls out his phone. And unknown number has contacted him with the message: _Hi. You left your wallet at the club last night. Do you want to come pick it up?_

He had completely forgotten. This new threat has distracted Matsuda from another, more personal, dilemma: he has left his wallet. He can't abandon such a high-risk mission so early in development. But the more he tries to ignore his wallet's absence, the less lucid his mindset becomes. Until he has rectified this small yet pressing matter, he cannot focus on the greater task. Cursing under his breath, he stands and shrugs his coat on. "I have to go. I…I forgot something at my apartment."

Yamamoto looks up from the computer and his mouth drops. "Wait, _what_?"

Matsuda bows his head apologetically and starts heading backward toward the doorway, buttoning his coat as he goes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll keep mulling this over and let you know if I find anything useful. Let me know if you do, too. You can use my computer. I'll be back." He races down the hallway and out the front door, neglecting to inform the chief. But it's best not to tell anyone else. The matter surrounding his wallet is not something to discuss with his boss and coworkers.

Without his license on him, Matsuda resorts to driving as cautiously and meticulously as he's ever done in sixteen years. The Tokyo streets are laden with cars and scores of pedestrians. Every turn he makes with care, fearing he might roll over someone's foot or suffer a fender-bender in the chaos of it all.

He parks a block away from the red-light district. Police vehicles have parked in the same lot, and Matsuda pulls his hood over his head to conceal his face. A paranoid feeling that he might be recognized chills him. Law enforcement is a smaller world than most people think, and Matsuda has been involved in it for some time now—he's familiar with who patrols which streets just as much as patrols are familiar with who he is.

He walks briskly to _Paradise_ and knocks on the front doors with a firm fist, banging them until their hinges shudder.

One door finally opens. A tall man wearing false eyelashes and a silk robe answers, lighting a cigarette between bright red nails. "Something you need, handsome?"

Matsuda straightens his back. "Umm, hi. I was just here last night with one of your dancers…Yumi. No. Yuki, I think." He scratches behind his hood, trying to remember. If only he had a picture of her.

The man takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales smoke through his nostrils. "Yuri?"

"Yes!" Matsuda's head perks up.

"Sorry, she's not working tonight. Come again some other time." He starts to close the door.

Matsuda swiftly wedges his foot in, keeping the door ajar. "W-wait, that's not why I'm here. I left my wallet here last night. Did anybody report it?"

The man's pencil-thin eyebrows rise. "Sorry, doll, but this is a club, not a lost and found. Anything you lose isn't our responsibility."

"Then please let me talk to Yuri."

He shakes his head. "We don't give out our workers' information without their permission. Now remove your foot before I make you." He takes another, longer drag of his cigarette.

"Then at least tell me if this is her number." Matsuda shows the man the message he had received while at work. During his time driving here, he had received a few more texts from the same number that he only noticed now. "Please."

"No can do, doll. That's against the rules." He gestures to Matsuda's foot. "I won't ask nicely again."

Matsuda clenches his jaw and reluctantly pulls his foot out from between the door and the doorframe.

The door remains ajar.

"However, you might want to look for her at _your_ place," the man whispers, shutting the door behind him before Matsuda can respond.

He needs a moment to register the man's last words before flying down the club's front steps and returning to his car. This time when Matsuda drives, he drives with urgency. Luck somehow keeps him from causing a scene, and he reaches his apartment complex without incident.

Matsuda flies up the stairs and wipes sweat off of his forehead with the heel of his hand. He's winded by the time he reaches the second floor.

Someone stands in front of his apartment number, leaning against the railing. His presence alerts her, and she turns her head toward him. Behind a curtain of dark hair rests a pair of wholesome, brown eyes. Ones he hadn't recognized last night beneath a mask of makeup within a hot fog. When their gazes meet, his chest tightens.

"Hello, Matsuda-san." Sayu smiles.

 

**22 DAYS REMAINING**


	7. Shame

The last time Sayu saw Touta Matsuda was at her brother's funeral.

She vividly remembers how he had his head down during the entire service, as if he had lost a sibling. Or perhaps he was ashamed of himself. As a member of law enforcement, he had failed to protect someone he cherished as both a companion in arms and as a friend. And the brief moment their eyes met, she couldn't find any sign of light in his. It was like seeing the eyes of a dead man—soulless and drained—reminiscent of a deserted wasteland. She wanted to say something back to him then, something more than just the formal "Thank you for your condolences." Something that placed their differing levels of grief on the same wavelength. To understand each other's pain. To know exactly what each other felt at that moment when they both said goodbye to Light Yagami: brother, friend, and a good person.

Sayu contemplates what to say as she follows her GPS to the apartment complex. At least Matsuda was wise enough to expect to lose his wallet, and, in doing so, wrote his contact information down. Sayu had called the number this morning but received no reply. She did some investigation and discovered where the apartment complex was, so she called the lobby to ask for Matsuda's apartment number. In the process, she had sent several texts to him, hoping that somehow he still had her number locked away inside his phone. Dubious, since she had to buy a new phone about a year ago and lost or deleted most of her contacts, including a heartfelt voicemail left by her father. Now his voice exists in her mind and the memories left behind in home videos of when she and her brother were little.

Sayu knocks twice on Apartment 21. She waits for a little over a minute before trying again, firmer with her fist this time. Still nothing. It's a Sunday, so she would assume he wouldn't be working. But just in case, she checks her phone to see if he has answered any of her texts.

Only one text, and it's not from Matsuda.

1/27 – 11:44 AM: Nami: _Your man's on his way._

Sayu scoffs at Nami's teasing message. When she had told her friend last night about the forgotten wallet, Nami's expression shifted from that of slightly uninterested to, "Oh, so you have a man now?"

"No," she said sharply, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. She turned away before Nami could take notice. It wasn't the first time her friend accused her of having a crush on a man. "He's someone who used to know my father."

"How so?"

"They worked together."

Nami nodded and released a soft, understanding hum. "Did't you say you brother worked with your father as well?"

"Yeah," Sayu replied. "He was even set to take over his position when he died." Though the truth of those words never felt sure to her, especially since their father had always been against Light joining law enforcement.

Their father considered it a cruel field. One he was looking forward to retiring from early within the next few years. Nevertheless, Light pursued a career in justice and law, and their father couldn't argue forever against his son's unwavering determination. Meanwhile, Sayu was on her father's side. She decided to pursue something safe but also lucrative. She decided to pursue something in the healthcare field. She was neither the genius that her brother was nor the competent soldier that her father was, so she took an interest in a career that would guarantee her both a job and her sanity. However, her interest in such a career faltered quite early on when she got kidnapped by the mafia. It ultimately crumbled following the deaths of her father and brother. Now, she can't fathom ever having been interesting in pursing such a path. After all, she couldn't save her mother from her own demise despite the obvious signs.

Sayu leans against the second floor railing, releasing a cloud of transparent breath into the cool January air and watching it dissolve into nothing. She feels her hands grow numb. She had neglected to take gloves with her this morning when she decided to return Matsuda's wallet to him at his apartment. She hikes her coat zipper up to her chin and shoves her hands into her pockets respectively. The bitter January wind still bites at her ears and nose. But strangely the chill helps her think about how she's gotten to where she is now.

Sayu had once been the youngest child and only daughter of Soichirou and Sachiko Yagami, and younger sister of Light Yagami, who was, at one point in time, the top student in all of Japan. A model student, the epitome of all that a father and mother could ask for. But, while Light had every equipment he needed to be the perfect son, Sayu always noticed a lingering distress in her brother's eyes. Even when he was accepted into the same field as their father, a field he had strived to become a part of since she could remember, there was still this emptiness inside him she couldn't quite comprehend. There were many times she had wished to ask her brother if he felt any opposition toward law enforcement or the judicial system in general. However, whenever given the opportunity to reach out to him, she always recoiled her hand. Somehow, she felt a wall between Light and herself—a barrier he had erected long ago, before she even knew it was there. And no matter how often she thought about breaking it down, Sayu knew she could never even form a niche in that wall.

Sayu hears a flurry of footfalls upon the nearby staircase. She turns her head just as a figure comes up. The man leans against the apartment wall, out of breath and flushed in the face. When he lifts his head and wipes sweat away from his forehead, their eyes meet, this time with renowned familiarity and warmth.

"Hello, Matsuda-san," she says with a smile. Her heart skips upon saying his name for the first time since seeing him at Light's funeral service.

Matsuda cautiously approaches, glancing over her shoulder, as if he's on the lookout for backup.

"Hi," he breathes. "I hope you weren't waiting long."

Sayu shakes her head, still holding the smile. "How are you?" she asks because that's the most obvious question to ask, though Sayu dislikes using the obvious to start a conversation.

Matsuda eventually settles his breathing to a normal speed. "I'm well. Sorry I didn't reply to your texts until now. I was at work."

Sayu waves it off. "Oh, no. It's fine. Don't worry."

Closeup, she notices the stubble on his face that he had once kept tame. Perhaps recently he had decided upkeep was no longer a necessity. That, or he's neglected himself in favor of his work. Kind of like how her father would get some times. The life of a law enforcer is strenuous and tiresome. Dark rings encompass the skin beneath his eyes, and she can smell the faint odor of alcohol on his clothes and breath.

Matsuda clears his throat. "So, umm, you have my wallet?"

She had almost forgotten why she had come here. "Oh, right." Sayu rifles through her purse to find the wallet and hands it to him.

"Thank you," he says, accepting it. He doesn't bother to check inside. Perhaps he trusts her enough as Light's sister not to assume she'd steal anything of his. Not that she had taken any of his money or IDs anyway.

During the exchange, their fingers touch for the briefest moment. His skin's warm, unlike hers.

"You're freezing," Matsuda says, having noticed. "Do you want to come inside for a bit?" He shoves a hand into his coat pocket and pulls out a chain of keys.

"Oh, no. It's fine. I don't want to bother you more than I have."

"No, it's the least I can do for you coming all this way to bring this to me. Besides, we haven't seen each other since…"

"…since Light's funeral," she finishes.

"Right." Matsuda stares at his keychain before snapping out of his trance and starting work on the doorknob. It unlocks with a _click_ , and he opens it. Then he turns back to her and gestures with a hand. "Ladies first."

Sayu thanks him as she enters.

"P-please ignore any mess," he stutters. "I haven't really cleaned it…I mean, I've been busy with work."

"It's fine."

Truly, the room isn't as messy as he makes it seem. The only evidence of a mess is the overflowing garbage bag that rests in the kitchen area and some dirty plates in the sink. Nothing to the extent that she's been known to leave her apartment in. Sometimes Sayu's so exhausted from work, she easy forgets simple hygienic necessities like cleaning her apartment.

He guides her to the couch, where she takes a seat.

"Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea?" Matsuda asks, shrugging off his coat and heading toward the kitchen area.

"Coffee would be nice. Light with milk, please."

"You got it."

The apartment smells oddly familiar—a musky odor that's neither rich nor obscene. It's the smell her father carried with him every time he came home from work. Sayu is brought back to her old home in the suburbs—the house she grew up in. The house she spent nearly her entire life in. The house she found her mother dead inside. The house she had to leave behind because the memories it held no longer brought her comfort, only pain. She hated the thought of leaving behind what her parents had built for her and her brother, but it was all she could do to try and quell the horrible nightmares she'd wake up to, not to mention the mortgage became out of hand for a young, unmarried woman to handle. Not even her family's life insurance could protect her from the inevitable.

The musky smell in the air soon becomes overpowered by the fresh presence of coffee. Sayu can't recall the last time she's looked forward to a warm cup. She can't even remember the last time she's looked forward to anything.

A few minutes later, Matsuda returns to the living room area, offering her a cup. "Here you go. Hope it's up to par. I'm no barista."

"Thank you," she says, accepting it. "I'm sure it's great." She blows on the steam and takes a sip. Her nose wrinkles, but not from the taste, rather from the heat. "D-do you have water?"

Matsuda quickly pours her a glass and returns with the water. Sayu manages to cool her mouth and throat before the heat becomes unbearable.

"Sorry, I guess it was worse than I thought."

She waits until her throat has healed. "N-no, it was just hot. It tastes fine. Anyway, I'm sorry to have texted you at such a bad time. I didn't realize you were working."

Matsuda puts both of his hands up. "No. It's nothing. Thank you for bringing my wallet all this way. You couldn't left it at the clu—" He pauses. "I mean, your work. I checked there first."

Sayu dips her head. "I should've specified I was coming over, but I wasn't entirely sure you'd be okay with that. I'm sorry, too."

Matsuda chuckles nervously. "Well, that solves the case of the missing wallet!"

During the majority of their conversation inside his apartment, he's maintained eye contact on the ground or somewhere equally as level. Anything but her eyes. Someone else might have suspected him to be shy, but Sayu understands the real truth. The flush across his face gives him away.

"It's okay," she says, taking a far more cautious sip of her coffee. It's still too hot to drink alone so she reaches for the water. "I stopped being embarrassed about my line of work a while ago."

"I didn't mean it—" But she raises a hand to stop him.

"It's fine, really. The only people I'd be afraid to tell are all dead now. I know seeing the former chief of police's daughter in that sort of world is disheartening, but we're all trying to survive nowadays."

He nods understandingly. "True." After a sip of his coffee, he says, "Wait, what about your mom?"

"She died last year."

Matsuda's eyes widen, as expected. "Oh. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." She waits for him to ask her how her mother died, but he doesn't. "How have you been? Are you still working with the same people in Dad's group?" Sayu can't remember all of them by name, but she can see their faces.

"Yeah, kind of."

Another awkward pause follows.

"Matsuda-san?"

He's busy drinking his coffee. "Hmm?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"You said you were a part of the group that brought down Kira. Did he kill my father and brother?"

His expression hardens, and, at first, she expects him to answer her with something vague or even turn the question around on her. He inhales deeply and looks down at the cup in his hands, as if for reassurance. "Yes and no," he admits.

Sayu's shoulders tense, and her grip tightens around the warm coffee cup. "Who killed Light?"

He hesitates.

"Matsuda-san?"

"I—"

Something buzzes.

Matsuda reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He checks the caller ID. "S-sorry. I have to take this!" He stands and hurries into the kitchen area to answer it. "Hello?"

Sayu can hear the conversation from the couch. Matsuda must have been so flustered that he neglected to turn the speaker on his phone off.

"Matsuda, where the _hell_ are you?" A booming voice demands. "Yamamoto just told me you left."

"I-I had to fix something at home. I'll be right back there. Sorry, chief!"

_Chief_ , she thinks and sees her father's face.

"Get back here now. I have the SPK on the line," the caller snaps.

"Yes, sir!" Matsuda lowers the phone and ends the call.

Sayu narrows her eyes at that last exchange but changes her expression before she can give herself away. "I guess that's my cue," she says as he reenters the living room area.

"I'm sorry," Matsuda says. "I have to get back to work. It's important."

She shakes her head and stands up. "No, I understand completely. Thank you for stepping out to meet with me."

"Of course."

She heads toward the door. "Oh, do you mind if I keep your number in my phone?"

"No, that's fine!" Matsuda smiles.

Sayu mirrors his expression. "See you later, Matsuda-san." The she opens the door to the chilly January breeze.

 

 

Back home, the first thing Sayu does is plop herself down on her bed and take out her laptop. She types "SPK" into the search bar. The result shows nothing remotely interesting, minus a K-pop girl group by the name of SKP. She sighs and considers Matsuda's words. Kira was behind her father's death. She had long since assumed that. But who would go after her brother? Could it have been the mafia?

Her heart stutters.

Just imagining the mafia's involvement remains a trigger. It's been over three years since her kidnapping, and yet she still wakes up in the middle of the night to the same horrible faces of those who took her—particularly that blonde-haired man. Mello. Her heart thumps again, and her breath shortens for a moment.

Mello. Could he have killed Light somehow?

No. He couldn't have done it directly, at least. Mello died two days before Light had. She saw the huge fire on the news that day.

Tomorrow will mark three years since she lost her beloved brother. Sayu still remembers the times she'd knock on his door and ask him to help her with her math homework. He'd always have time for her.

Sayu leaves her laptop and heads for the kitchen to fix herself something. Inside the fridge, she finds nothing that will sate her for long.

"Time to go shopping," she says and collects her coat.

As she walks along the Tokyo backstreets toward the main road, Sayu smiles as she remembers Light. She thinks about the kind of person her brother was and could have been. Despite the ounce of despair she sensed in him, he had been born with the genetic jackpot—beauty and brains. The latter of which she knew she could never escape the shadow of. He could have been brilliant. He could have done something nobody else could have. He could've changed the world.

Her throat tightens, and tears begin to well in her eyes.

Sayu slides a hand down her face and sighs. This is the first time she's been emotional in awhile. She thought she had cried herself out following her father and brother's funerals. Not even her mother's death induced as many tears as she had anticipated. She feared she had grown heartless.

Sayu takes another long breath and closes her eyes.

If only she had done something.

If only she could step into her brother's place.

If only—

_Thud_.

Sayu reopens her eyes and glances around for whatever had caused the sound. Snow, perhaps? Finally, her gaze lowers to something dark lying on the sidewalk a few yards in front of her. She approaches what at first looks like nothing more than an old notebook. But then, for some odd reason, she's convinced to pick it up.

Sayu glances up at the residential building closest to her. _Did someone drop it_? The building doesn't have any open windows or balconies where it could've blown out or fallen off by accident.

Her attention returns to the notebook and the two words written on its cover: Death Note.

She blinks and opens to the first page where a list of rules catches her eye. The first rule sends a chill up her spine as she reads it out loud.

"The human whose name is written in this note shall die?"

 

**22 DAYS REMAINING**


End file.
